As if prepared to pass in splendor,
Mother dons a frosted carpet,
bidding all to weather well;
succumb to slumber;
and dream upon the promise of tomorrow;
know that it will come
behold our timeless journey
through an age of beauty known to none . . .
and they will weather this;
as if by fluke will see a warmer day,
and will, as if by accident,
renew a life in grand array
while full and furtive feathers
flock to flee the test of time's neglect
and leave the Winter rose to grow
and comfort every shivering human heart
that bleeds from ageless wound
in suffering deep and humble;
weeping winds to pass the slumber
in the silence
of the dead of night.
Will warmer sunny season
soothe and quiet the impatient heart?
illuminate the wonder and the fervor still alive within?
The future tells a story
now extinct within an icy wind: not mourn the world that passed away,
but treasure what is ripe to Spring;
the sure and fragrant flower
fresh of promise yet to bloom again.
In voyage vast beyond they live; a dream, a lovely rose, a song,
all bound as young still life in slumber.
. . new life locked within and still.
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